Asphodel
by Majokai Yukiko
Summary: Chapter 3 up! Slash. SandsEl. SandsOC. CIA never needs a blind agent. What can Sands do when reality and memories crash in?
1. Chapter 1

**Asphodel | Chapter 1**

**A Once Upon A Time In Mexico Fanfiction by Majokai Yukiko**

**Pairing: El/Sands, Sands/OC**

**Rating: R **

**Warning: Slash [In later chapters]**

**Timeline: A few hours after the movie**

**This is an amateur effort and does not intend to infringe on the rights of the movie producers and their associates. **

A/N: Am I the only one who thinks Sands wears cute T-shirts? By the way, this is written in response to Kate's response. Take it as a meeting gift, my first post on this community. 

---

His cell phone rang. The Mariachi had forgotten it was even there until he heard the all too familiar ringing and vibration in his pockets. There was only one man who knew the number to that cell phone, and how ironic, that man was not he himself. 

He took out the phone and stared at it in his palm, wondering what he should do about it. He did his job, took his money, and he had his freedom. He had done about what he had promised to do. What else did Sands want from him?

He answered the phone. 

"Hey."

"What do you want, Sands?"

"Chill it, buddy. Just wondering if I could ask a favor from you. Where are you now?"

"I've done my job. I'm not killing for you anymore, agent."

There was a brief silence on the other side of the line, until it was broken by a sigh. 

"I'm not asking you to kill for me, El. Just need you to read a letter to me. I'm all alone, holed up in my hotel room now with a Chicle kid who can't read to save his life."

"What? CIA doesn't teach their agents how to read?"

"No, they just don't get their letters embossed. Look, just meet me over at Caltza Hotel, room four-one-six in two hours' time and you'll see, savvy?"

Sands slammed the phone down onto the handset and buried his face into his palms, careful not to press down on his empty eye sockets. 

"You'll see," he repeated bitterly to himself. "But I won't."

***

Exactly two hours later, there was a knock on the door. The two occupants of the room tensed. Sands reached straight for the gun he had placed earlier and aim it accurately at where he heard the knock. 

"Go on, boy. Look through the keyhole and tell me how the chap looks like."

The boy nodded and walked towards the door, peering through the small piece of clear plastic on the door.

"A man, sir. Tall and dark, around five feet nine with long black hair."

A brilliant smile broke across Sands' face as he loosened his grip on the gun. 

"Goddamn bloody handsome too," Sands exclaimed. "Let him in." His hand reached up to make sure his sunglasses were still in place; no use scaring the guy off until he read him his letter. 

El entered the room, silent as always, but stopped at the door. The boy quickly closed and locked it again. El cleared his throat. 

"Damn glad you came, El. Come, take a seat," Sands waved vaguely in the direction where he knew the bed must be.

"What sort of games are you playing, Sands? There's no sun in here for you to keep those glasses on."

Sands only gave a crooked grin and removed the shades. The boy turned away with a painful gasp. 

"Take all the money you want from the drawer, kid. And run along home."

Silence. Strange, awkward silence, followed by a series of clicking noises; the boy left the room, closing the door behind him. El locked it. 

"He didn't take the money."

"I know,' Sands smiled and held out a folded piece of paper to the Mexican. "Bloody good lad, so unlike me when I was younger."

For some reason, El could not imagine how Sands was like when he was a boy. He could not imagine what sort of child would grow up to become the manipulative bastard the CIA agent was. No, Agent Sands was born the way he was: sunglasses, weird T-shirts and all. 

He took the piece of paper and read it. 

"Ya? What is it?" Sands asked impatiently. 

"It's a letter of dismissal."

"Figures. Read it aloud for me."

El nodded and looked down on the letter again.

"Dear Agent Sands [Code: 4584266],

We regret to hear about your accident in line of job and sincerely think it will be beneficial to you that you retire from the force. However, a pension will be provided for you if you present this letter to the American Embassy of Mexico. 

Yours truly,

James Conner."

El never thought Sands could cry but it was exactly what he was seeing now. The agent's head was bowed; tears tinged with blood from his fresh wounds rolling down his cheeks. The eyes might be gone, but the tear glands were still working. 

The salt from the tears hurt as they attacked his wounds. But somewhere deep inside his chest, that dull ache hurt more than any physical wound he could have. 

"Conner, you bastard…" 

***

**Eight years ago. **

"Sheldon, you have a visitor." 

The American looked up at the nurse at the door and smirked. 

"Hey, Lila, miss me?"

The nurse blushed at the patient before scurrying off. The man behind her raised an eye in puzzlement and entered the cell. 

"Hi, Mister Sands, my name is James Conner, from the CIA."

The patient tucked his knees closer to his chest and grinned at his visitor. He did not know this man. But the fact that he was from the CIA and looking pretty good himself got his interest. 

James Conner was a tall, well built man with neatly cropped blond hair. At that moment, he was dressed in an off white suit with a gun holstered to his belt. Judging from the size of the bulge on the coat, it could only be an 8 mm. Smith and Wesson revolver. 

Interesting…very interesting…

"Sit down," Sheldon offered politely, although there were no chairs in the cell where he was in. "And then tell me what does the CIA want from me?"

"Well," Conner plopped himself onto the floor facing Sheldon and shrugged himself out of his jacket. "For reasons unknown to me, the CIA request for your addition into its ranks."

Sheldon cocked his head to one side, leaning against the padded wall of his cell. "Pray tell, why would they want a madman under their roof?"

Conner shrugged, took out two cigarettes and a lighter from his pocket and offered one to his companion. Sheldon took it.

"I have no idea. What have you done, anyway? You don't seem too insane to me."

Sheldon shrugged, closing his eyes. "No idea. I was simply skullfucking some dozy chick into the mattress when my dad called the police on me."

"That didn't sound too bad."

"That's what I thought so too, but they told me necrophilia, incest and murder were illegal."

Conner widened his eyes at the nonchalant confession. Sheldon Sands was insane, he realized. What was the CIA thinking anyway…?

"Why weren't you hung?" He questioned. Sheldon took a long drag of his cigarette, smiling slightly to himself. 

"Will you hang a fourteen year old kid?"

---

End of Chapter 1


	2. Chapter 2

**Asphodel | Chapter 2**

**A Once Upon A Time In Mexico Fanfiction by Majokai Yukiko**

**Pairing: El/Sands, Sands/OC**

**Rating: R **

**Warning: Slash **

**Timeline: A few hours after the movie**

**This is an amateur effort and does not intend to infringe on the rights of the movie producers and their associates. **

A/N: I thought about Sands choosing suicide as a way to rid himself of his handicap. But then I thought again. Nay, he was too much of a survivor to do that. You notice when he first staggered into the streets without his eyes, what he was thinking was not how painful he was, why he had deserved that and generally absorb himself into self-pity? All he had in mind was, somebody was watching him and he needed to survive. Someone like Sands would not commit suicide. He would fight and not give up until he got himself the last laugh. 

_"See anything you like?"_

_"No."_

---

El was sitting on the only couch in the hotel room, reading the news report about the attempted coup that happened the day before.  Nothing about the legendary El Mariachi was reported. Good. He should remain dead to the world. El Mariachi would never return from the grave again. 

He cast a worried look at the American sleeping on the bed. Sands had cried himself to sleep earlier, obviously distraught by the letter CIA had sent to him. Surely he would not expect anything less from the agency. After all, CIA had no need for a blind agent in their ranks. 

El never thought the day would come where he would feel sorry, or even worry, for the agent. But now, he found it hard not to, not when said agent was behaving like a lost helpless child. 

The mariachi put down the papers on the coffee table, made himself comfortable on the couch, and went to sleep. 

***

Sands was dreaming. Correction, he was having a goddamn fucking nightmare. Moving pictures of electronic tweezers, bright lights and mocking smiles, all better left abandoned but had instead clung on to him like an irritating parasite. 

Sands wanted to open his eyes and wake up from that horrible phantom. Then he realized. He had no eyes to open or close them in the first place. 

He woke up screaming. 

Sands clawed at his empty eye sockets in panic. Why was it so bright? How could it be that, even though he could not see a thing, the light in the room could still burn into his vision and slowly gnaw on his damaged nerve ends?   

He was oblivious to the pain, to the wounds he had reopened and the blood tears flowing down his jaw lines. 

"My name is Sheldon Jeffrey Sands. I've worked for the CIA for the past eight years. I'm born in San Jose, California…" He repeated his mantra over and over again; small useless facts were all he had to ascertain who he was. Who he still is. 

He felt a shadow of a man move before his eyes. Desperate, he clung onto the man's arms with all the strength of a drowning man, digging his fingers into the soft leather coat. 

"James?"

"No, it's me."

Sands stiffened, and then slowly willed his fingers to loosen their grip, albeit reluctantly, afraid that if he let go totally, it would only be up to him to ensure if he sink or swim. He could either swim till he drown, or he could simply let himself drown in the bottomless abyss of pain, nightmares and despair. 

"Why are you still here?"

***

**Eight years ago. **

"Now I know why the CIA wants you."

Sheldon turned around and gave his trainer a smirk, tucking his gun back into its holster before removing his earplugs. 

"What, you mean, reasons other than for my dashing good looks and charming personality?"

James Conner rolled his eyes, taking another look at the results of that day's firearms training. 14 targets, all dead. No regrets, no hesitation, kill the hostages if they get in the way. That was the perfect embodiment of a CIA field agent, one who had no qualms about getting rid of those who interfered with the plans, the one quality no other agents were ruthless or inhuman enough to carry through with. 

A madman. 

"Funny, Sands. Very funny."

Then, it was Sheldon's turn to roll his eyes at his mentor. He swaggered up to the taller man, casually flicked a wayward bang out of that handsome face and grinned. 

"Please, James. You know you have not called me Sands since the day you tied me to that chair and skullfuck me—"

"Sheldon!" 

Sheldon removed the hand from his mouth and laughed, nibbling teasingly at the strong wrist. The invitation in his eyes was obvious. Finally, not caring for the cameras located around the firing range, James pressed the smaller man against a wall and captured his lips in a deep sensual kiss. 

***

Present 

"Are you going to the embassy this afternoon?"

Sands shook his head. 

"You heading anywhere today?"

Sands shook his head again. 

"Aren't you going to get the rest of your clothes from wherever you left them?"

Another shake. 

"Want anything?"

Sands mumbled something under his breath. El leaned in closer. "What?"

"Pork with tequila and lime." 

El had no idea what had gotten into him when he offered to take the blind agent in. Sands had called it the superhero syndrome. To quote his exact words: "Not to worry, all D-I-Ds (damsels in distress), put up the Bat signal and El Mariachi will move heaven and earth to save your poor Chihuahua from the evil Doctor Mojo Jojo."

El had no idea what he was talking about.  Then again, he never knew what Sands was ever talking about. It was as if the man spent his days in a world of his own, talking about things that only he knew, ranting on and on about his obsession with order, knowing that the agent did not give a shit about the law. 

But, El suspected, this was even more so after he was blinded. 

"Okay, but I'm not going to shoot the cook for you over it."

"Oh no," Sands smiled, a truly amused smile that lightened up the entire room. "I'll shoot the cook, remember?" 

El did not reply. The chains at the ends of his pants jingled slightly as he numbly made his way to the door, eyes blank and wide in confusion. He opened the door, walked out of the room, shut it, leaned against its lacquered wood surface and gave a shaky sigh. 

God, he never knew how much a smile can affect someone until he saw *that* one. El was flabbergasted, El was taken aback, El was almost shocked into oblivious, El was totally in love with that smile and, he just realized, was talking about himself in third person. 

The mariachi shook his head and went on to get his takeout. 

***

Eight Years Ago 

"I can't believe you are making him do this! You simply can't! That guy was his mentor, Goddamn it! He practically taught him all he knew for the CIA!"

"All the more reason for him to do it, isn't it? Sands, get out of the room now. And next time, knock before you enter."

Sheldon Sands cocked his head to one side, giving a one-finger salute at his superior, who was currently caught in a verbal crossfire with his dear Mister James Conner. He took two steps back out, opened the door behind him and took another step backwards, efficiently stepping out of the room. He rapped his knuckles soundly on the wood and walked into the office again, slamming the door shut behind him. 

"As you say, sir," he winked cheekily. 

The man on the chair threw his hands up in exasperation and brought them back down again. Conner turned around and glared. 

"Sands, get out."

Sands rolled his eyes, swaggered over to where the couch was and threw himself down on it comfortably. 

"Oh, don't mind me. Go on," he waved nonchalantly, closing his eyes with a smile. 

Conner huffed. "Sheldon, didn't you hear what this bastard was about to make you do for your first mission?"

Sands, with his eyes still closed, raised an eyebrow in mock puzzlement. "Put dear Old Misery out of his misery? I heard," he lifted his right hand, two fingers clenched to form the shape of a gun and brought it to his temple. "Right here, bang! And boohoo, no more Misery."

"Don't you care? He taught you your stuff."

"Then he should know this will happen to him, seeing that he taught me what I knew." Sands swung his legs off the couch and stood up, making his way to the door, not before giving his lover a succinct but terribly clear message with a finger: fuck off.

"See, Agent Conner? This is the sort of CIA agent I'm looking for."

James stared furiously at the now closed door, and then turned to his superior, now lounging comfortably in his chair as if he had won his argument. 

"The sort of agent you are looking for, _sir_, is a fucking nutcase!" 

And he had found it in Sheldon Jeffrey Sands.

***

End of Chapter 2


	3. Chapter3

**Asphodel | Chapter 3**

**A Once Upon A Time In Mexico Fanfiction by Majokai Yukiko**

**Pairing: El/Sands, Sands/OC**

**Rating: R **

**Warning: Slash. Mind control. Sexual torture. Stockholm Syndrome **

**Timeline: Post movie**

**This is an amateur effort and does not intend to infringe on the rights of the movie producers and their associates. **

A/N: This story took a major turn at this chapter. Before that it was basically ranting on my part. Did not have a clear plot in mind. Now I do. Yeah. 

***

**Eight years ago.**

"What's wrong?" Sheldon placed a hand gently on a bare arm, looking into the sea blue eyes of his lover. James Conner sighed, knowing that the loving gesture was no more real than the enigma Sheldon Jeffrey Sands was. After seeing the man at work that afternoon, James believed…no, he knew, that the new agent would not hesitate to kill anyone, as long as the order's passed down and he was promised the amount of fun he wanted. Anyone, him included. 

"You don't have the right to ask, Sands." 

"And why is that so?" Sheldon removed his hand and laid back on the soft sheets. James kept silent. After a while, he heard a soft rustle beside him as warm arms pulled him into a spoon. He felt Sheldon breathing calmly against his shoulder. "You don't think I will kill you, do you?" Sheldon whispered in askance. 

James did not answer. The answer, they both knew it well deep within their hearts. There was no need to say it out loud, or so they thought. 

They never realized their answers to the same question were different. 

Sands waited till his lover was asleep before he pulled away, propping himself up on his elbow to watch how the moonlight played on James' blond hair. He did his first official legal murder that afternoon. He had murdered his mentor under CIA's orders. The old man had taught him all that he knew. And because of that, he was not at all surprised when his student pointed a gun at him with a smirk. Old Misery had long suspected whom the CIA would send to put him out of his miserable existence. 

The job was done without much of a hitch. Agent Sands had completed his job, as ordered. But what the CIA did not know and could not know, was how the agent had reacted after he put that bullet through the old weak heart. He had walked up to the dead body, and kneeled down on one knee beside it. Placing his unarmed hand on Old Misery's face, he slowly eased the dead eyes close. 

A drop of tear fell from his eyes. It was the only form of mourning he would allow himself to give. 

Watching the grime crusted blond hair, Agent Sands immediately thought about another blonde he knew. Would he kill him when the situation called for it? Instead of his mentor, could he imagine his lover dead and bleeding at his feet? 

He probably could. But he would save another bullet in his gun for himself too. 

***

Present 

The office was dark, except for the ghostly light from the laptop screen. The night was silent, except for the clicking of the computer keys. 

James Conner lightly tapped his cigarette over the edge of his ashtray, and then brought it back to his lips. This was interesting, he thought, reading carefully the report off his screen. 

Eight years was an awfully long time for anyone to remain unchanged. James Conner definitely had changed. For the better, he supposed. Spending almost a decade killing and fucking his way up to the top of the Agency could do that to anyone. Life was getting terribly boring, until he received the news that the one who had messed him up so many years ago had finally gotten his retribution. 

The blond man could not help but smile a little at that thought. 

"Sheldon Jeffrey Sands," he whispered a little to himself, testing that long-forgotten name on his lips. That man had left him that night eight years ago, took an one-way ticket from CIA to Mexico without as much as a parting glace, leaving him to pin after him like an abandoned puppy. How the tides had turned. 

Conner chuckled gleefully and ground out his cigarette, closing the lip of his laptop with his other hand. 

Sands had more to learn about himself. 

***

Eight years ago 

He had no idea where he was, or how long had it been since they shut him in there. There were no windows in the room, or so it seemed. The room was totally dark because he could not see a thing. The sunlight was not shining anywhere in the room because he could not feel heat on his skin. 

Actually, as a matter of fact, he could not feel anything. Or hear anything. Or smell anything. 

It might have been death. But it was not death because he remembered something very vital. For example, he knew his name was Sheldon Jeffrey Sands, he knew he was not part of the CIA and that this, whatever this was, was part of his training as a field agent. He vaguely recalled something about them stripping him before pushing him into this cell. What did they call it? Oh yeah, sensory deprivation. 

He felt empty. On the first day he had yelled and screamed and cursed and shouted, panicking when he realized not only could he not hear what he was saying, he could not even feel himself saying those words. He was air, as insubstantial as a fucking fairy. He tried rubbing his fingers over his face, trying to feel the warm skin beneath his fingers. But it was numb. All of it. 

On the second day, he tried thinking erotic thoughts, rubbing where he thought his cock should be, trying to force himself to feel pleasure. And then he tried pain, thinking that if all else fails, pain should jolt him back into reality soon enough. He banged his head repeatedly on the floor he was on. But he might as well have been bouncing on air. Nothing. He felt nothing at all, as if his brain had been disconnected from the rest of his body. 

He held on for a couple more days. Days of course, he was speaking in extremely vague terms. He had no idea how to tell time in this empty place. But anyway, he soon started begging. 

He crawled, he cajoled, laughed when he thought he should laugh, cry when he though he should cry. He could not hear a single thing he said, but he knew they could, and that they must have, for they later gave him back his sense of touch. It was then he felt an overwhelming sense of love for them. All other love he felt before, for his lover, for his family before they fucked him over, for the girl he used to have a crush on back in high school, paled in comparison. 

He could not hear himself, but he heard them, like the voice of God, telling him that they would give him another sense if he were a good boy. 

And a good boy he was. He masturbated for their pleasure; he prized open his cheeks for them to view his tight puckered entrance. Most of all, he did not protest when they took him. Hands roaming all over his body, fingers probing where he had only allowed one man to touch. He had never felt so keenly before. He never felt so loved. 

They were so good to him. He could feel. They let him feel. 

His next reward was his hearing. They told him they liked to hear him moan. They told him illicit suggestions of what they wanted to do to his body. Their voices became more substantial as time passed, no longer speaking into his mind; they were now beside him, right beside his ear. He moaned for them, loudly, realized how much he loved the sound of his own voice, and moaned some more. 

His smell and taste came next. The pungent smell of cum and urine was like sweet aroma to him. This taste of hot salty but bitter liquid burning down his throat was like heaven's wine. He loved it. He loved it all. He loved the one who had given all these to him. He did not need to see him to worship him. In this darkness, His brilliance was like that of God. You do not need to feel him, to touch him to learn how to love him. Nothing. Just a voice. Just a taste of that essence. And he would be his again. 

Anytime. 

***

**2 months ago**

"My name is Sheldon Jeffrey Sands. I work for the CIA, and I'm livin' la vida loca." 

The man staggered from the room, suddenly glad for the sunglasses over where his eyes should have been, protecting the sun's harmful rays from his raw nerve ends. His other senses were overloaded. The sounds of the market, the feel of the blood crawling down his cheeks, the smell of the human pollution in the air had all yelled out to him. This was familiar. Too familiar. 

Sands shuddered, bracing both his hands on the rough brick wall. The hair on his nape stood up right, his shoulders itched, like how it had always been when he was being hunted. Whispering his mantra over and over again under his breath, he quickly worked out what he had to do to survive. 

This was not the first time this was happening to him. What happened the last time? He tried to remember. And then smiled when he did. 

He saw God. 

Yes, that's right. God would come for him soon enough. Right now, like he did the last time, he had to prove himself worthy of His affections. 

***

End of Chapter 3

Continue to Chapter 4


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